


six more weeks of summer

by amleth



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eye Trauma, Fix-It, Groundhog Day, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Parallel Universes, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier in the Deadlights, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 03:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30082719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amleth/pseuds/amleth
Summary: His name was Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier. He was thirteen years old and he lived in Derry, Maine. His best friends were Stan Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak, and Will Denbrough. His dad was a dentist and his mom wished he’d been born a girl.All of this felt true, more or less. Like it could’ve happened before.Or, Richie gets caught in the Deadlights and cycles through the different scripts written for IT (2017).
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	six more weeks of summer

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to Alec and Katie for looking this over, and to my writing sprint server for providing so much support despite none of them going here. ♥︎
> 
> Additional warnings to be added with each chapter.

Pennywise wrapped around Mike like a snake, and Richie picked up a rock.

Richie couldn’t kill It, probably, no matter what cult-like bullshit Bill (and now Mike) had told them, but Richie could pick up a rock, same as he had with Bowers, and say it again: _Don’t look at him. Look at me_.

Richie’s entire life: _Look at me. Look at my bullshit._

“Here’s a truth: you’re a sloppy bitch,” is what he actually said. Eddie had asked him once, breathing heavily like Richie was really fucking hurting him here, what would happen if he said something “with _sincerity_ , like a normal fucking person? No, I want to know, Rich—would you spontaneously combust?”

Richie wished he could remember what he’d said back. He had been a fifteen-year old virgin and probably tried to turn _combust_ into a joke about, like… ejaculation.

“Yeah, that's right! Let's dance! Yippee-ki-yay, mother—”

Richie was still trying to remember what he had said, like anything he’d said to Eddie had ever meant anything, when his eyes rolled back into his head. His knees fell inward, a ragdoll pose.

His feet left the ground and he thought, distant: _I’m floating_. I get it now, bitch.

 _I get it, I get it_. Flying straight into the sun, _I get it_ —

“So, how’s it work?”

Eddie’s voice. Bill jostled into Richie’s side, tallest in their class and way too fucking bony.

“How’s what work?” Richie and Stan asked in unison.

 _Stan_! Stan was here.

Richie looked past Bill’s shoulder; Richie’s eye level. They were in the school hallway, marked-up exams flying by. Floating, even.

Where else would Stan be?

“I was _asking_ Stan.” Eddie glared at Richie with his stupid, caterpillar eyebrows. Richie should tell him someday, he thought, how powerful they were. “Your Bar Mitzvah.”

“It makes you officially a man, right?” Bill didn’t stutter once.

“Kind of. I read verses from the Torah.”

Oh! Richie knew this one.

“Then the rabbi pulls down his pants and they slice the tip of his dick off.”

Eddie shook his head, mouth pressed. _Uh-uh, I’m not going in there, it’s_ — “You’re so full of shit. You told me he has to kill his Ronin master and his penis _grows_. Six inches.”

“Shit, I don’t need a Bar Mitzvah for that.”

“Just your mom’s _Cosmo_ ,” Bill supplied. He didn’t stutter once.

Richie huffed, gripping the backpack slipping to his ass. “Bill gets off a good one.”

“ _Marie Claire_ ,” Eddie corrected.

“Why’d you call me Bill?” Bill asked.

“Yeah, what kind of a nickname is Bill for Will?”

Bill stared at him. Richie’s head was spinning. 

“William, Bill.” He gestured vaguely, voice wavering. “William, Will, Bill.”

Stan pursed his lips. “If you have to explain it.”

“Well, I didn’t freakin’ ask you.”

“Jesus, she’s still here?” Eddie said.

Richie blinked against the sun, the glare of his glasses. It was almost as bright as—

“What do you think she’s thinking?” Stan asked.

Richie tilted his head, looking past _REMEMBER THE CURFEW 7 P.M._ Surrounded by police officers, like she was the freakin’ queen of England—

“Maybe she expects Dorsey to just walk out of the school with the rest of us,” Will said.

Richie pushed his glasses up. “Dorsey?”

Stan frowned at Richie. _Et tu, Staniel?_ “Eddie Corcoran’s brother. You remember him. He was friends with—” He glanced pointedly at Will.

Will shrugged his backpack off, dumping the last year into the trashcan. Richie hated how he looked that summer, like a wounded puppy. This summer. “You can say his name.”

Eddie only had eyes for Mrs. Corcoran. She wrung her wedding ring between her hands. “They’re not going to find him. Dorsey, I mean.”

The boys fell silent. It was his job to fill that silence, Richie remembered. To lighten the mood.

“Sure they will, Eds.” Richie patted him on the back, sweat sticking to his hand. “In a ditch. All decomposed, covered in worms and maggots, smelling like your mom’s—”

Richie was checked to the sidewalk, his backpack spilling open.

“Out of the way, chode!”

Richie lifted his chin off the concrete. Victor was grabbing Stan’s yarmulka. “Nice frisbee, fuck nut!”

He threw it into a passing schoolbus, and Belch burped in Eddie’s face and Eddie reached for his—

EpiPen. Eddie had an EpiPen in his fanny pack.

Richie looked back at the school, expectant, but there was no one else.

Bowers and his gang were walking away, Stan helping Richie to his feet, when Will—stupid, heroic Will—yelled out, “You suck, Bowers!”

“Shut _up_ ,” Eddie whispered.

Bowers paused, turned around. Savoring it. “You say something, Denbrough?”

Will’s mouth was set, and Richie remembered why he’d been a little bit in love with him when they’d first become friends, even if Richie wanted to kill him for it.

Bowers stepped in close to Will, who didn’t look tall anymore at all. “You got a free ride this year ‘cause of your little brother,” he said. “Ride’s over. This summer’s gonna be a hurt train for you and your faggot friends.”

Bowers glanced over at the police, who were still surveying the grounds. _Later_ , his face seemed to say. He nodded at his friends and the three of them stalked off toward his Trans Am.

“I wish he’d go missing,” Richie mumbled.

“He’s probably the one doing it,” Eddie said, casual as anything, and the thought came fully formed: _No_ , he’s not.

But then Stan was ushering them on because he had _practice_ and Richie was making a joke about the kind of practice _he’d_ been doing to become a man, and Eddie said, “that’s freaking disgusting,” and, “why exactly do you need so much practice, Richie? _Don’t_ say it, it’s too fucking easy,” and Richie said, “You know who else is too easy?” and everything was fine, right then.

It was the first day of summer.

Richie dumped his bike at the side of the house, sidestepping his mom’s hydrangeas. He spent two minutes looking under potted plants before remembering the key he kept in his pocket. He let the door slam behind him and sprinted up the stairs.

Something felt very, very off and, as with most of Richie’s problems, his instinct was to take this problem as far away from other people as possible. If he could be alone for two minutes, he’d be able to figure it out.

“For God’s sake, Richie.”

Richie gave his bedroom door a longing look and backed up, back to the top of the stairs.

Below stood his mother. Hand to her forehead, leaning on the banister as if drawing her strength, she looked like every memory Richie had of her.

She looked Richie up and down, sighing. “What was so important?”

He hated, hated when she talked like this, but she didn’t even sound angry to him that day. She just sounded tired.

Richie took a few steps closer, cowed. “It’s the last day of school, baby,” he shrugged, a Danny Zuko Voice that he’d picked up during his sister’s Travolta phase. “Guess I got a lil’ carried away, alright?”

“You think?” She pinched his chin, making him squirm. She knew he hated— “Wait, what’s this?”

She moved her hand along his chin, which was, apparently, covered in dry blood. Fucking Bowers. She took Richie’s head between both hands, angling to check for other spots. “ _Mom_.”

“Honestly, I don’t understand—”

“At least I didn’t break my glasses this time?”

She closed her eyes (praying for patience, Richie thought) and let him go, an elastic band snapping back.

If asked, thirteen-year-old Richie would say that his parents loved him. They loved him in the unavoidable way that everyone’s parents seemed to. There was also a cap, he knew, on his parents’ concern for him.

It had something to do with being an adult, Richie thought. That was why he had never had kids—would never have kids.

“It’s a shame you have glasses,” she said neutrally, the observation of an outsider with no stake in the matter. “If it was your sister, she might’ve been able to get by without cuts and bruises, but—”

“Mom.”

She sighed again. He would never forget the sound, he thought, and he was wrong.

“Wash up before your dad gets home. He sees enough blood at work.”

His skin was itching with the attention. “Greatthanksmomwilldo,” he said, and sped for his room.

Richie collapsed against his bedroom door, nearly tearing the _Wolf Man_ poster Stan had gotten him for his birthday. Stan had fucking hated that movie, as had Richie’s parents, and Richie was sure that if the poster hadn’t been presented as a gift from Stanley “Stan the Man” Uris, the son that Wentworth and Maggie Tozier had never had, it would’ve gone straight into the trash.

There was leftover pizza that Richie didn’t remember eating on his bedside table; his stomach lurched. He heard Eddie’s voice in his head, took deep breaths.

This is what he knew:

His name was Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier. He was thirteen years old and he lived in Derry, Maine. His best friends were Stan Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak, and Will Denbrough. His dad was a dentist and his mom wished he’d been born a girl.

All of this felt true, more or less. Like it could’ve happened before.

Over on the bed, his bed, a walkie-talkie crackled to life.

“Richie, you there?”

Richie flopped down onto the Memphis comforter he’d insisted on. He landed with a pink trapezoid in his mouth and wished his mom had picked instead.

“Yeah, yeah, Willy, I’m here. Don’t put me on a milk carton. Over.”

“Grab your bike. We’re grabbing supplies at Eddie’s and meeting Stan at the Barrens.”

Richie opted for a southern belle Voice. “Well, gee, darling, you don’t have to beg. You know I’ve always been sweet on ya. Over.”

Richie, Stan, and Eddie had a nonverbal agreement that they were going to find absolutely nothing that could make the missing (dead) kids un-missing (undead) on their long-anticipated trip to the Barrens, and that they would do absolutely nothing to try to talk Will out of it.

Richie scratched absently at the blood on his chin on his way downstairs. Besides, he thought, the Losers had been good earlier about reminding him. Reminding him that Will was Will and that that had been Dorsey Corcoran’s mother standing outside the school. He’d probably remember more, the more he was around them.

He wanted to remember more, before he said too much that was wrong.

His mother didn’t look up from the phone when he walked out the door. He wasn’t surprised. Kids disappeared all the time these days.

Water sloshed around Richie’s Vans. There was no way his mom wasn’t going to notice the smell and that was just fucking fine, Will. Anything for you, Will. Richie rolled the name around in his mouth, waiting for it to sound right.

The water was lined with garbage—styrofoam cups, scraps of paper, swim caps. Memories.

Richie followed them hungrily.

He felt old for this, like they were all too old for this, but they were all a little too in love with Will to say so.

“C’mon Eds, get your ass down here. Even Stan’s down here.”

“Thanks, Richie.”

Eddie was shaking his head, that stupid set of his mouth. “I’m staying out here. It’s gray water.”

Richie frowned. Hadn’t the quarry that they’d swum in been filled with gray water, too?

Richie could _taste_ gray water. Could feel his glasses fogging up, Eddie’s scrawny knees digging into his back.

“Tell ‘em, Will. Your dad works for the public works.”

Will deflated a little, leaning a hand against the wall. “It’s where all the wash water and storm drain runoff goes.”

“It’s piss and shit,” Eddie clarified. “You guys are splashing around in Derry’s toilet.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Eddie-Bear will swim in the quarry, but he won’t play Hardy Boys with us in a little sewer water. That’s it, huh?”

“ _Swim_ in it?” Eddie repeated. “Haven’t you ever heard of a staph infection?”

Richie had. And Eddie _had_ swum in the quarry, they all had. Will had been the first to strip, and Richie had flipped his head around to a tree, and made a dick joke about the tree before anyone could ask, “gee, Richie, why the sudden interest in trees?”

On second thought, maybe that had been a really fucked up dream.

He was saying the wrong things again.

“Guys.”

Richie turned to attention; Will was holding a sneaker fit for a kindergartener.

Stan inched back toward the light. “Shit. Don’t tell me that’s…”

He still couldn’t say his name. Poor Stan, Richie thought. Terrified of his own mouth.

Will shook his head. “Georgie wore galoshes.”

“Then whose is it?” Eddie was leaning into the tunnel, craning his neck to see; a mirror image of Stan, who looked ready to bolt.

Will pulled his flashlight out. Stan was the closest, but Stan was—whatever, so Richie stepped forward.

“D. Corcoran,” he read. Stan inhaled sharply, but Richie—

It felt like a fact of life, that Dorsey Corcoran was dead. Like something you’d read about in the newspaper.

“Shit, fuck, _shit_. I’m freaking out here, guys.”

And Richie—Richie was _tired_. He felt like he was in some sort of time warp, his friends moving at half his speed. He turned back to Eddie. “How do you think Betty feels, running around these tunnels with only one freakin’ shoe?”

Even Stan snapped to attention. “Betty?”

In that moment, a boy fell into the water looking like someone had killed him.

Richie was psychic, he decided. Like Charles Xavier. He was thirteen years old, and it made sense that his powers would manifest around puberty.

He discarded his t-shirt, immediately felt the windchill against his chest. The rest of puberty would come in time, he thought.

“You sure about this, Eds? I’ve been hearing about this thing called a staph infection.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Eddie’s t-shirt hit Richie squarely in the face.

Ben looked out over the edge of the cliff, his perpetual frown in place. “What’s a staph infection?”

“Don’t get him started,” Stan called over.

“ _Ugh_ , your shirt’s all sweaty. Pretty sure that’s exactly how staph infections spread.”

“That’s AIDS, moron.”

“Who told you that, your mom’s ‘friend’ who ‘lives in New York City’?”

Richie blinked at himself. He didn’t know where that had come from. He’d always found Mrs. K’s stories a little suspect, hadn’t he?

Eddie’s face was all scrunched up, his cheeks red. Cute, Richie thought, and felt his stomach turn. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Guys, are we doing this or not?”

Will, Richie’s hero, squinted back at them. They trudged over like scolded schoolchildren.

The quarry looked much further from the edge. Richie’s arms hung awkwardly at his sides.

Will cleared his throat. “Who’s first?”

While Richie was asking his psychic powers, a girl appeared between Will and Stan.

“Bunch of sissies,” Bev laughed, the key around her neck swinging loose, and leapt.

They were sunbathing. Bev had decided it for them by pulling out a pair of sunglasses and laying a towel down on a rock. Bev was good at that, deciding things.

Will had spent the last twelve minutes trying to decide whether or not to say something. Richie had lost interest in what that something was eight minutes ago. His psychic powers, he had determined, did not tell him anything that he wanted to know.

Bev was practically naked, but this was of no interest to Richie. Every time he tried to look at her, his brain went— _She’s a kid_. And of course she was a kid. They were all fucking kids.

Maybe if you joked enough about being into older women, it became true.

Will sat up abruptly. “Do you guys ever feel like there’s something wrong with Derry?”

Eddie poked his head up, leaning back on his elbows. “I mean, any town that’s around long enough, bad stuff is bound to happen,” he shrugged. “All history is just a long line of bad things happening to people.”

“Try reading the Torah.” Stan didn’t even open his eyes. He looked so peaceful on his back, his curls moving in the wind. He could be dead and they wouldn’t be able to tell.

Richie looked away.

Ben shifted toward Eddie, taking his eyes off of Bev for the first time since they’d surfaced. “Derry’s not like any town I’ve been in before, though. And we’ve moved around a lot.”

“Not just that. Like…” Will rubbed at his eyes. Everyone was sitting up, now. Even Bev seemed to recognize his authority, taking her sunglasses off. “I need to tell you guys something. But I need you to not think I’m crazy.”

Eddie looked between the five of them, worrying his lip between his teeth. Richie, who had accepted that he was a superhero mere hours ago, rolled his eyes. “We already know you’re crazy, William. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

Will’s eyes were on the rocks, on someone none of them could see. “I saw Georgie last night.”

Richie leaned back, waiting for surprise to hit. He could hear the trickle of the water, the wind in the trees. Eddie broke the silence. “Like… in your dreams?”

Will looked him dead in the eye and said, “Like a ghost,” and Richie’s mouth went dry.

Will knew that Georgie was dead. They’d been looking in the Barrens for a body.

“He tried to get me to go into the basement with him. And it wasn’t just him.” Will was in storytelling mode now; turning from kid to kid, imploring them to believe him. “There was this other…"

“The clown?”

Will, Stan, and Richie all turned to Ben, who squirmed under the sudden attention. “Bowers and his friends were—going after me, at the Kissing Bridge. This old couple passed by in a car. I saw a clown in the backseat, grinning at me, and they sped away.”

Richie snorted. “More great parenting, brought to you by Derry.”

“I saw something, too, at the synagogue,” Stan said. “A woman.” The last part came out in a rush, his face going a little red.

A memory surfaced. When they were both ten, Richie and Stan had snuck into Rabbi Uris’ office after Rosh Hashanah service. They’d passed the painting of the woman with her face all squished up, like she’d been forced into the frame, and Stan had turned away, hands shaking in the dim light.

The next day, Richie had stolen Stan’s backpack and drawn said woman in all of his schoolbooks. Stan hadn’t spoken to him for a week.

Richie winced at the memory. Stan hadn’t mentioned the painting, though, had he?

Stan was still blushing, and Richie couldn’t help himself. “When you say you _saw_ a woman, Stanley, how much did you see?"

“Beep beep,” Eddie called while Stan gave him the bird.

Richie plowed ahead. There wasn’t going to be a better time. “Let me guess. She jumped out of that painting that scares the shit out of you, right?”

Stan stiffened. The other Losers glanced between the two of them, lost. “Lucky guess,” he said coolly.

“I’m pretty sure I’m psychic, actually.” Laughter fell out among the group, which was fair, really. Richie took offense anyway. “Seriously! I think I knew what Will and Stan had seen before they said it. And I knew that Dorsey was dead, and that we were gonna go swimming in the quarry.”

Eddie huffed. “Okay. If you’re psychic, tell us what’s going to happen next, Einstein.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t work like that, Spaghetti. I don’t know what’s going to happen every minute. Just… the major things.” The others exchanged glances and, _wow_ , did it suck to be on the receiving end of that. “Will just said he saw his brother’s ghost! Ben saw an old couple driving around a clown! Stan saw a naked woman, which is by far the least believable, and I said _nothing_. Why won’t you guys believe me?”

“What about me?” Bev was sitting up now; watching Richie intently. “You said you knew what we’d all seen. Well, I saw something, too.”

Richie met her gaze. Bev could be intimidating when she wanted to be. He’d see it when she led the others upstairs, never mind that Richie had years on Bev’s one day in the Losers Club. He’d sit back on his bike, defeated.

He was picturing Bev’s apartment. They weren’t going to let him inside, but they were going to tell him what happened after and he was going to be so _pissed_ they’d made him miss out on—

“Blood,” he said. “Your bathroom’s _covered_ in blood, and your dad thought you were crazy.”

Bev paled, and Richie felt the humor drain from the air.

“Uh,” Will said. “Guess we should pay a visit to Bev’s apartment, then?”

Bev and Richie led the way, the others trailing behind. Bev stole glances at him each time they turned a corner. Richie was about to do a leading man Voice when she asked, barely a breath, “What else do you know about me?”

Richie fidgeted with his glasses to buy himself a second. In his mind’s eye: Sharing cigarettes with Bev by the quarry, Eddie’s voice growing distant. Holding the door open for her at the Aladdin and holding that “date” over Will’s head for weeks, as if it didn’t end with Richie telling Beverly she was “a good dude” and Bev laughing so hard that she snorted Coca-Cola.

Also in his mind’s eye: Bev reading on a tree stump in a clubhouse that Ben hadn’t built, bruises poking out from under her shorts.

Richie dropped into a sheriff Voice, tipping a nonexistent hat. “Why, ma’am, I’m not sure what yer referrin’ to. Is there somethin’ I should know?”

Bev tucked a curl behind her ear, her eyes ahead; a nonresponse. She was better than them. She thought she was better than them. Richie remembered thinking of it like that outside the pharmacy. He had taken an immediate dislike to her for it.

He wasn’t thinking that now.

They came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. Bev seemed to deflate at the mere proximity to her apartment. “My dad will kill me if he finds out I had boys in the apartment.”

“We should leave a lookout.” Will stepped forward, slipping back into the lead without effort. “Stan? Parents like you.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “What does your dad look like?”

Bev paused. “Like a drunk.”

Richie exchanged a look with Will, but Stan, bless him, just nodded. Richie remembered that they had been going to leave _him_ behind, could still see them walking upstairs without him.

“If I’m right about this,” he mused, gripping the railing, “maybe my visions are, like, warnings, you know? Like, a future I’m supposed to stop from happening.”

Eddie scoffed from behind. “With which powers? Are you gonna talk the clown to death?”

“My mouth is very powerful, Eds. Just ask your mom.”

Bev led them to the bathroom without touching the lights, her father’s chair left in shadow.

At Bev’s nod, Will swung open the door.

“I knew it,” Eddie said, and Richie smacked his arm.

Richie had pictured piles of blood—flooding the tub, gushing along the tile floor. He hadn’t realized that it would have dried by now. Left ugly streaks on the walls, left the room in a red glow. Richie thought of his dad. _You think you see a lot of blood?_

“You see it?”

Will had that hard set to his mouth and Eddie looked ill. Ben’s eyes were sympathetic. “It’s like someone slaughtered a pig in here,” Richie said, shaking his head.

Will stepped deeper into the room, scanning the walls. “How did it happen?”

“It came from the sink. It was like Richie said, my dad couldn’t see it. I thought I was going crazy.”

“Then we’re all crazy. Especially Richie.” Richie gave Eddie another _thunk_ on the arm.

“So, what’s next, Rich?” Will asked, an uncomfortable reversal.

“I don’t _know_.” Richie made to lean against the sink and, remembering the fucking blood, stepped back out into the hall. “It’s not, like… linear. It’s all mixed up in my head, like it already happened, and I just kind of get reminded that it’s a thing that’s gonna happen. And some of the details I get wrong.” He didn’t want to admit that he still thought Will should be called fucking Bill, or that he should have a stutter.

They were frowning at him. Granted, Bev had been frowning ever since they’d gotten to the building, so he couldn’t take _that_ one personally. It didn’t make much sense to Richie, either, now that he’d said it aloud. Eddie scratched at his neck, looking, desperately, like he wanted Will to speak up, to give them a direction to run in.

Ben raised his hand half in the air, and Richie loved him. “We could try to remind you of stuff that might be useful?” he offered. “Like, say stuff that might trigger your memory.”

“ _Haystack_ ,” Richie sighed. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

“That’s a good idea,” Will agreed. Ben blushed shyly. “While we talk, though… we can’t leave it like this.”

Richie got put on floor duty while Eddie took the tub and Ben the sink, Will and Bev splitting the walls.

“I remember who Dorsey Corcoran is,” Richie said. “But I thought he died, like, a long time ago. Like, before Georgie went missing, even. And I thought the shoe we found was going to be Betty’s.”

Will looked down at Richie, their own Cinderella. His knees were bloodied from the tile. “Betty Ripsom? She died last year.”

“They found her body at the scene of the crime,” Eddie added quietly.

“Okay, so I’m getting a bit of a shitty radio signal on these visions,” Richie conceded.

“We can still use them,” Bev said. “Let’s focus. What else do you know about the clown?”

Eddie slung his towel over his shoulder, looking very much in his element. “You remember everyone else seeing the clown. Do I see him?”

Richie nodded. Eddie would have nightmares about it for years. Richie would shake him awake, talk his ear off about _X-Men_ or Mrs. Avery’s tits until Eddie calmed down enough to sleep again. “You see a leper. It looks like a walking infection.”

Eddie made a gagging noise. “Gross.”

Richie saw them by the Aladdin, swapping stories in broad daylight like it was nothing. He followed the memory. “The clown is, like, his default or whatever,” he shrugged. “But It can take whatever shape It wants, I think. A leper, Georgie, the hands… _fuck_.”

Eddie frowned. “Who’s afraid of hands?”

Richie stood and set his towel down on the sink. “We’re missing someone.”

“You know we’re not done cleaning, right?” Will called after him, but Richie was gone, racing down the steps.

“Stanny! _Stan_.”

Stan was leaning against the stairwell; arms crossed, eyes trained on the road. He couldn’t have been a more obvious lookout if he’d tried, but this was also, Richie knew, just how Stan stood.

Richie reached the bottom of the stairs, leaned on his thighs to catch his breath. “You know the homeschool kid?”

“Mike.”

“ _Mike_!” The name was music to his ears. Mike, Mikey, Michael. “He’s seen the clown, too, or he will. He’s gonna help us. We just have to save him from Bowers first.”

Stan’s eyes went comically large. “ _Bowers_?”

“Stan, you’ve been reading that bird book of yours too much. You’re turning into a parrot.”

Stan grabbed him by the shirt, making Richie yelp. “How are we supposed to save another kid from Bowers? I saw him knock you over _yesterday_. He barely even had to touch you.”

“Numbers?” Richie squeaked. Stan didn’t ease his grip.

“This doesn’t make any _sense_ , your visions.” Stan rubbed his forehead with his free hand, a worn-out parent. “It doesn’t fit with what everyone else has been seeing. It doesn’t make sense.”

Stan worked his jaw, Richie’s shirt shaking slightly in his hold.

Stan looked the way he had when they’d passed the fucked up painting. Stan looked terrified.

“Stan,” Richie started, but he had no idea where that was going and, in that moment, he was spared from having to express some sincerity (“ _like a normal fucking_ —”) by the others running down the steps.

Stan released him and Richie made a show of smoothing out his shirt. “You guys done?”

“No thanks to Richie!” Eddie called down.

“Richie,” Will sighed, “maybe this is why we were going to leave you behind.”

Richie threw his hands up. “I share with you guys visions _from the future_ , tell you there’s a kid out there who needs our help and you say, ‘no, Richie, we’d rather stay here and finish cleaning Eddie’s mom’s vagina off the wall,’ and I’m the bad guy.”

“Yes,” Stan agreed. He stepped right past Richie to retrieve his bike.

“Glad we’re all on the same page.” Will pushed past him, Bev and Eddie close behind. Ben stopped to throw Richie a sympathetic smile. Thanks for the brave defense, Ben. “Richie, you coming or what?”

Richie led them to the Barrens, in the vague direction of the trainyards.

“Sorry my vision didn’t have the fucking _langitude and longitude_.” He spun in place, walking backward. He was in the lead, which made sense, but he was used to having Eddie right there to fuck with. “You have the best sense of direction here, anyway, Eds.”

Eddie made an indignant noise. He had his hand on his EpiPen and was taking large, careful steps, pulling his feet all the way out of the grass. It was fucking adorable. “Are you—being able to tell which direction the Ironworks are in doesn’t mean I can lead us to a fucking _vision_ from your _mind_.”

“We should probably be quiet, right?”

Eddie swiveled around, Ben shrinking under his gaze. “I just mean—Bowers and his friends are around here somewhere. Right, Richie?”

“Uh.” Richie looked back and forth between Eddie and Ben. “Haystack has a point.”

Stan raised a hand. “I’m sorry, did Richie just volunteer to go silent?”

Richie flipped him off and turned to face forward again. The fear in Stan’s eyes had become a consistent thing and it was getting fucking _annoying_.

So Richie had visions. Visions that included an Eddie who had an aspirator instead of an EpiPen and a stuttering boy called Bill Denbrough who did not believe that his brother was dead.

It didn’t make much sense that Pennywise was doing this. But who was to say that he was the only magical force at work in Derry?

A laugh sounded from behind a tree. Richie stopped so abruptly that Will nearly knocked into him.

“Get back here, fucker!”

Richie turned around and made a shushing motion that made Eddie mouth _I fucking know!_

Bowers cleared the tree. He was hefting a piece of meat, Victor and Belch close behind, and Mike ( _Mike!_ ) was doing a pretty good job of running for his fucking life.

They were headed for the Kenduskeag, from the looks of it. The Losers bent down to gather rocks. Richie said in an undertone, “We should probably get closer if we want—”

Bev threw a rock across the Barrens, nailing Bowers in the back.

“ _Ow_! What the—”

Bowers stopped short, rubbing at his back. Victor shook him by the shoulder, pointed him in the Losers’ direction.

“ _Oh_ , you fucking—” Distracted, like a pet, Bowers ran in the Losers’ direction. Victor and Belch glanced briefly at Mike, who had frozen in place, before following. “I’m gonna kill you idiots!”

Richie raised his

Richie raised his arm to aim, blinking away the muscle memory telling him that they were in a sewer; the weight of _Mike I’m so sorry Mike_.

That hadn’t happened, wasn’t going to happen. They would never leave Mike.

“ROCK WAR!” Richie yelled instead, and nabbed Belch in the jaw.

The others followed his lead and Bowers and his friends quickly abandoned running, had to because the kids’ rocks were fucking slowing them down so badly. Victor and Belch scrambled to gather rocks off the ground.

Bowers shifted the meat in his hands, considering it. “I was savin’ this for homeschool, but…”

He threw the meat in their general direction, and Richie heard an _oof_ as Eddie was knocked to the ground. “Eds!”

Richie turned, but Eddie was already rising to his feet. The piece of meat slid to the grass, leaving a streak of blood from Eddie’s cheek to the fanny pack at his waist. The effect was not unlike Eddie had been in a fight with a live animal.

Eddie looked down at himself, let out a curling scream, and threw another rock.

Bowers, Victor, and Belch started getting pelted from behind—from Mike, their white knight, standing a few yards away with rocks gathered in his arms.

Bowers spun around, refocused. “You’re fucking dead, you little bitch!” he screamed, and hit Mike with a rock that split his forehead and knocked him to the ground.

Victor and Belch were still aiming at the rest of the Losers, but Bowers _kept throwing rocks at Mike_ , who was still on the ground. Bowers scrambled toward Mike and Richie aimed at Bowers, trying to slow him down.

“ _Dude_.” Victor exchanged a look with Belch. Both of their faces were covered in blood. “Travis. Travis, this is fucking insane. Let’s just go.”

Richie paused to process “Travis,” who didn’t seem to have heard, and the other two took their chance to flee, running back toward the trainyards.

Mike stood up shakily, and he was holding every rock that Bowers had thrown at him. The sole focus of the Losers’ attention now, Bowers got pelted from both sides.

“What is _wrong_ with you—fucking assholes— _fuck_!”

Will got him in the eye and Bowers crumpled to the ground. Mike used the opportunity to come over to the Losers’ side, taking his place between Will and Bev.

Bowers stumbled to his feet, bloody and beaten, and Richie spared a moment for _oh god, I hope we didn’t fucking_ blind _him_ before yelling, “Eat shit, you piece of shit!” and running off with the rest of the Losers.

Richie jostled his way into the thick of the group and presented a scabbed-up hand to Mike. “Richie Tozier’s my name, doing voices is my game.”

The town square was buzzing with activity, the sun bearing down on them. It made Richie’s eyes burn, the Paul Bunyan statue not providing any shade. The Paul Bunyan statue—

Mike, Stan, Bev, and Ben crowded together onto the bench. Richie stayed on his bike, the handlebars sweaty in his grip. In the back of his mind, something itched.

Mike wrung his hands in his lap. “My pa says this town is cursed.”

Richie blinked. “Like, your grandpa?”

“That’s your question?” Eddie said. He and Will had their bikes angled toward Mike. Eddie had turned to face Richie, though—had been facing Richie since they’d gotten to the square. Richie blew him a kiss that he batted mid-air.

“My dad,” Mike corrected. “The night before I met you guys, he was telling me about the Black Spot. A lot of black soldiers went there. It was a nightclub, before it got burned down by a racist cult in the 30’s.”

The Black Spot. But hadn’t that happened in the 60’s? Hadn’t Mike’s parents—

“I read about that in the library,” Ben said. “The Bradley Gang massacre happened around the same time. A couple of the survivors said they saw a clown shooting.”

Mike nodded. “My pa thinks all the bad things that happen in this town are caused by one thing. An evil thing, that feeds off the people of Derry.”

Stan pursed his lips. He caught Richie’s eye, as if to say, _This is the guy you brought to save us?_ “It can’t be one thing,” he said carefully. “No one at the Black Spot saw a clown. And we’ve all been seeing different things, too.”

“Maybe It can change form.” There was no trace of offense in Mike’s voice; his tone was almost dreamy. “I think It takes the form of what It thinks will scare us the most.”

Richie felt Will tense beside him. “Which would explain why I saw Georgie’s ghost.”

Mike was looking down at his hands. Richie saw them blackened with soot, curled around the door of a burning building. But if Mike’s parents hadn’t died in the fire…

“I saw It in the coroner's office,” Mike said. “It was a clown at first, then It turned into the corpse of one of Bowers’ friends.”

The Losers exchanged glances. Even Richie knew better than to ask what Mike had been doing in the coroner’s office. Instead, he said, “So—Bev and Stan are scared of the same thing, right?” He leaned toward Eddie, almost conspiratorial: “Girls always bleed a ton the first time they get laid.”

Bev laughed. Richie felt calmed by the sound. “You don’t know shit about girls, do you?”

“Eds’ mom said otherwise last night,” he said, and something was _really_ wrong because Eddie didn’t even respond to that, just blurted out, “I saw It yesterday.”

They all turned to face Eddie, catching at his tone. “I was walking by that house on Neibolt, and—it was just like Richie predicted. I saw a leper, skin falling off and everything.”

Eddie kept looking at Richie, like Eddie had something else to say or like he expected Richie to say it for him.

Richie held his hands up. His voice dropped into a squeak, a bystander held at the scene of the crime. “Don’t blame me! I’m just the messenger.”

“Hey, we’re all afraid of something,” Mike said diplomatically. “What are you afraid of, Richie?”

Richie glanced behind him. If he concentrated, he could see that the stage was empty, could hear the sound of an axe swinging down.

But that had been a dream, hadn’t it? That hadn’t been a vision.

Richie pushed his glasses up on his nose. He’d been wrong about what Mike had seen, hadn’t he? He could be wrong about what he was going to see, too.

The stage behind him wasn’t empty. On it was a children’s party.

“Clowns.”

Will said, “Georgie’s body is at Neibolt,” and Richie said, “I’ll grab my bike.” Richie was thirteen and too old, too tired to argue the inevitable.

Richie swayed on the steps. The itch in the back of his mind had only gotten worse since they’d reached Neibolt, the smell of decay hitting him before they even got to the steps.

“Guys!” Bev was panting from the gate, the five of them lined up. “You can’t go in there. This is crazy.”

Will sighed impatiently. “Richie’s the one who’s been seeing the future, and Richie thinks it’s the right thing to do. Don’t you, Richie?”

Richie felt the steps teetering beneath his feet. Had they always been this weak? “Will’s right. I can see us going in there.”

It seemed as normal as breathing, for the six—seven of them, Mike was here now and they were seven—to go into Neibolt. Richie tried to chase the memory, tried to follow them through the doors.

Eddie was holding the railing because of his cast. Eddie didn’t have a cast, Richie reminded himself. Eddie’s arm was free. Richie was clutching it while Eddie was shrieking on the wooden floor. Richie was touching his arm, his shoulder, his face.

Richie felt his chest seize up, backed away from the memory.

“Besides,” Will continued, “what happens when another Georgie goes missing? Or another Dorsey? Or one of us?”

Richie blinked; Stan was missing already. Had Stan followed them there at all? He blinked again and Stan was frowning against the fence.

“Look, you don’t all have to come in with me. You either, Richie. I started this. It’s m-my fault you’re all back here.”

Richie felt his heartbeat pick up. “What did you say?”

Will took a deep breath. “It’s my fault you’re all here. It is, I—”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice sounded thin to his own ears. “No, you didn’t. You said it’s your fault we’re all _back_ here, and your voice got all deep and you fucking—”

Richie fell to the steps, his head knocking against the post. _He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees_ —

Stan called, “Richie, _Richie_ ,” shaking his arm. Richie’s head was in his hands.

“No sign of blood on his head, but he should probably get an MRI ASAP just in case. He could’ve sprained an ankle taking a fall like that, too. We won’t know until he wakes up, but he might need two of us to support his weight.”

“I didn’t touch him. He was standing right next to me and then he just… collapsed.”

Bev, fainter: “Maybe we should give him some space.”

“ _Please_ ,” Richie said. Stan’s wrist pressed against his upper arm, and Eddie—Eddie had been right behind him when It— “Please let go of me. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

A terrified pause, and Stan released his arm. Richie could feel that Eddie was still close, could hear his heavy breathing. Of course. Why would this Eddie ever fucking listen to him, either?

Richie took steadying breaths, grateful that Eddie didn’t have his water vapor-filled inhaler to offer. Richie wiped his eyes before lifting his head.

Eddie was seated next to him, terrified doe eyes. Stan and Will hovered at the foot of the steps, Will wearing that guilty fucking face he got when he hadn’t even _done_ anything.

Richie found Mike’s eyes. He stood further back with Bev and Ben, patient and waiting.

“You guys are so small.” Richie was tearing up again, rubbed at his eyes. “You’re like munchkins.”

“Richie,” Eddie breathed, “if you make a joke about your big dick right now, I swear to god I’ll stab you with my EpiPen.”

Richie’s shoulders shook with laughter. It did not help the crying thing, fucking _thanks_ , Eddie. Richie covered his mouth with his hand, his breath getting away from him. “You’re freaking adorable. Also, I’m not psychic and this shit all already happened,” he said, putting it all out there before he could chicken out.

The six of them stared at him, and Richie thought, just briefly, that he had never been so terrified: a bunch of thirteen-year-olds looking at him like he’d been holding up their world.

Bev tilted her head, a port in a storm. “What do you mean, Richie?”

Richie exhaled through his nose. “All this…” He gestured broadly to Neibolt; their summer. “We did it before. We didn’t kill It. We left Derry, forgot any of this shit even happened, everyone except Mike here.” Mike’s mouth twitched downward, just barely perceptible. “Thirty years later, he brought us all—”

Richie’s voice caught. Stan’s eyes were boring into him.

Richie swallowed thickly. They didn’t need the fucking novel. “He brought us all back here. I threw a rock at It, ‘cause forty-year-old Trashmouth’s still a fucking idiot. I got caught in the Deadlights, which—” He rubbed at his forehead. Beside him, Eddie’s face had scrunched up so much that he looked like an alien off of _Star Trek_. “None of you know what those are. It’s… it’s like you’re in a coma, sorta? Bev—Bev gets caught in them, the first time we try to fight It, or at least she did in the real world—”

Richie felt the air drain from the yard, the bandaid ripped off too fast.

“The ‘real world’?” Will’s voice was dangerous. He didn’t look guilty anymore; his face was hard and mean.

Richie fought the urge to bury his head in his hands again. “This isn’t real. I got caught in the Deadlights and all this has been me… hallucinating, I guess. Bev saw stuff, too. Ways our future was gonna go or could’ve gone.”

The kids exchanged glances. Eddie looked doubtfully at his hands, as if they might disappear. Stan faced the grass.

“What do you mean?” Will asked. “I’m not— _we’re_ not a hallucination. Okay, Richie? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“So, all this is real, then?” Stan snapped his head around. His voice was hoarse with restraint. “Richie’s psychic even though he’s been remembering the past wrong, too? Does _that_ make more sense, Will?”

“ _Stan_.”

Richie stood and Will took a step back, as if Richie might hurt him. Stan’s eyes were blazing.

“Look, guys, I—” Richie leaned against the railing. He’d had it wrong. He wasn’t old enough, hadn’t aged at all. “You guys should just go home, okay? It’s summer.”

“The only time I had fun this summer was when I was with you guys,” Ben said quietly.

“Is that a fucking joke?” Eddie snapped. His grip was tight on the steps. “‘Go home, it’s summer’? I don’t know if you’re having some kind of mental break or if our entire lives have been some forty-year-old’s fucking hallucination!”

“We should stick together, at least,” Bev put in, “while we try to figure this all out.”

“We shouldn’t _leave_ ,” Will said firmly. “If Richie has lost it and everything we thought before about the threat, about Derry, is still true…”

Richie felt something inside of him break, watching Will. His body still angled toward Neibolt.

Nothing was going to convince Will not to go inside that house. Not ever.

Richie was a coward, when it came down to it. Richie was false bravado and a sports car that he’d rented for his middle school reunion on someone else’s credit card. Richie had taken the fire escape and would’ve skipped town, fuck all those dead kids, if he hadn’t passed the synagogue.

If he hadn’t felt so fucking guilty. So responsible.

“I can’t do this.” Richie pushed past Will and Stan. “Go in, don’t go in. None of this is real, I don’t give a shit!”

Will called after him, Bev called after him, they all fucking called after him. Richie swung his leg over his bike and left the six of them standing there, like an asshole, but they weren’t real so it didn’t fucking matter, anyway.

Richie was sitting at a bar, and Richie was Rich Tozier again; six-foot-one, unshaven, and trying to disappear into a leather jacket that cost more than he had in his checking account.

Richie raised his glass, and the bartender topped him off. He sported a waistcoat (tight, fitted) and a handlebar mustache. Somewhere behind Richie, _Für Elise_ played on piano.

“Thanks, man.”

A bearded man peered at him through glasses bigger than Richie’s own. “How’d you know that was _Für Elise_?”

“Dunno.”

A man on Richie’s left huffed. “Leave a man his secrets.”

He threw back a bottle of whiskey, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Richie reached for his drink and a human-sized Paul Bunyan stalked up to the counter, chopping the man’s hand off at the wrist.

The bearded man leaned back in his stool, gut straining against his suspenders. “What’re you doin’ down here, anyway?”

Richie sputtered. The dismembered hand was still clinging to the bottle of whiskey. The man tried to pry it off with his other hand, blood spouting from the wrist.

“Can we get another bottle of whiskey over here?” a third man called.

The bearded man grinned at Richie. “You’re real funny, you know. A man who knows classical music.”

“I don’t, _really_.”

The man guffawed, knocking himself off his stool. Paul Bunyan loomed over him, one boot at each hip.

“Please, my wife—”

Paul Bunyan drove the axe through the man’s stomach, spraying blood along the counter.

“What kinda winter do you think we’re in for?” the third man asked.

“I’m tellin’ you now, it’s going to be a real jeezer,” said another. He nodded at the bartender, who had slid down a fresh bottle of whiskey. “Worse than ‘01. The trees’ll cut ‘emselves down, won’t even need us.”

Richie looked at the floor again, and the bearded man was being chopped up like wood. His head rolled along the slattered floor.

“Should we do something?” Richie felt like he was trying to speak through a fog, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

The third man leaned back, considering. “I think the rain’s about used up all the water for this year.”

Richie stood abruptly, scanning for the exit. The bearded man’s head knocked against a closed door. Paul Bunyan had moved on to the Poker game. He threw another guy up against the card table, buried the axe in his back.

“Oh _no_ , Richie,” Pennywise demured. He lifted a glove hand from the piano to his cheek. “What are you gonna do?”

Richie opened his mouth to speak, but his mouth was full. He was sucking on a popsicle, cherry dripping down his jaw, and he needed to finish before anyone at the bar saw.

Pennywise giggled. “That’s what I thought. You can’t save them, Richie! You can’t even save yourself.”

I can, Richie thought. Or someone else will. Someone better.

But his eyes were stinging from the effort and he forced them shut, and when he opened them again, he was back in his twin size bed with his mom knocking on the door.

Richie spent the remainder of the week at the arcade, an irony that he was happy to keep to himself.

His internal monologue that week went something like _JAB PUNCH why the fuck hasn’t anyone gotten me out yet there are five of them five DEFENSIVE CROUCH unless some of them all of them are dead already did Mike ROUNDHOUSE KICK—_

When that wasn’t enough, Richie stepped outside to smoke. Steve had gotten him to switch exclusively to weed several years back. Steve was in the other Portland, if he even existed in this fever dream.

Richie’s hands were beginning to cramp up from four days of Street Fighter when he heard, “Hey, you’re pretty good.”

There was blonde hair in his peripheral. Richie didn’t look up. “Yeah, no shit.”

Richie knocked Ken down twice and Connor didn’t walk away. Richie could feel his fucking breath. “After this round, you wanna try two player?”

Richie wiped his brow with his elbow. “Thanks, I’m good.”

“Uh. Okay.”

He sounded a little hurt, and Richie didn’t feel guilty at all.

He took a smoke break shortly after that.

It was another four days before Richie got his second visitor.

_BACKFLIP_

“Kiiind of busy here, Mike.”

“Okay, I’ll just wait then.”

_SHORT KICK_

“Could be a while. I’ve got two pockets full of tokens and I plan on using every single one of them.”

“Richie.”

_DEFENSIVE CROUCH_

“Richie, I need to talk to you. I’m not… I’m not leaving until I do.”

Richie could hear the determination in his voice. _We made a promise_.

Ryu was knocked down. Richie leaned his head over the controller.

“Five minutes,” Mike promised.

They settled on the bench. Thirteen-year-old Mike’s go-to for deep conversations, Richie supposed.

He heard Mike sigh, looked up without meaning to because Mike was a hard fucking person to ignore, even when he wasn’t _Mike_.

“This must be really weird for you.”

Mike was watching him; eyes kind, hands open on his thighs. Richie had sort of forgotten how calming Mike had been, prior to being left in Derry for thirty years. Richie rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

“I want you to know that I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“Uh. Thanks.” Out of all of his friends, Richie had been the least concerned about Mike believing him.

“But what if…” Mike’s eyes were bright. _There’s a ceremony. The Ritual of Chüd_. “Just hear me out, okay?”

“Mikey.” Richie sat up in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. “You have my full attention.”

Mike smiled. He was amused, Richie could tell; he had gotten used to looking for it with Mike, who smiled at everything but rarely laughed. “Have you ever heard of the multiverse?”

Richie huffed a laugh. Mike’s talents had been wasted on Derry. “Sounds like something out of one of Bill’s books.”

“Okay, we’re going to circle back to that,” Mike said, pride in his eyes. “After you… told us, I checked out some books at the library. It pops up in a lot of science fiction, but there are people—physicists, philosophers, even some religious figures who have been theorizing about there being a real multiverse for a long time. It goes back to the Ancient Greeks, at least.”

Richie loved him like this, confident and in his element. Loved and dreaded it in equal measure. “Is this, like, an Illuminati thing? Like, a conspiracy theory that they just keep shooting down and people just keep…” Richie fell back against the arm of the bench, arms flopping in a poor imitation of a dying man, then sat up again.

Mike didn’t even blink; Richie was tantruming against the inevitable, Mike’s point. “Richie,” he said, so seriously that Richie could barely stand it, “what if what you’re seeing in the Deadlights isn’t a hallucination? What if you’re looking at a real, alternate universe?”

Richie _phew_ ed, leaning back against the wood. “My mortal brain is going to need, like, at least an hour to process that, Spock.”

“How much do you guys know about these Deadlights?”

Richie shook his head. “Bev was stuck in them for, like, hours. Ben had to kiss her to get her out. It was some real cute, Disney shit.”

Mike smiled, waiting him out.

“She saw us when we were older. Some stuff that ended up happening, some stuff that could’ve happened if we’d done stuff differently. But we don’t know—” Richie paused, seeing the look in Mike’s eyes. He needed to stop this train before it got away from him. “We don’t know that anything she saw was, like, its own universe. It might’ve just been stuff that… was maybe going to happen for _us_ , and maybe not, you know? Or maybe it was all bullshit and she just happened to be right about… one thing.”

Richie didn’t give a fuck if this Mike was a real person or not—he didn’t have the strength to explain Stan’s suicide to him.

“Or,” Mike said, “multiverse.”

Richie sighed. “Or multiverse. You wanna spend all day arguing about it? Maybe get a chalkboard and some cigars so we can talk about it like real philosophers?”

“Actually, I should probably get going soon.”

“Oh?”

“It’s Stan’s Bar Mitzvah today.”

Richie’s face fell.

Mike took a deep breath, the final pitch. “Maybe you’re right, you know? Maybe this is all a hallucination and the second someone pulls you out of the Deadlights in your world, this Stan and this me won’t exist anymore. But if not…” Mike stood for dramatic effect, the fucker. “I want to give this my best go. I want to be there for my friend.”

Richie whistled lowly. “Ever think of becoming a public speaker?”

Mike pursued his lips, considering. “No. Do I become one in your world?”

“In a word… no.”

“Well, maybe I’ll become one here.”

It was pouring by the time Richie got to the synagogue. Mike, Eddie, Will, Bev, and Ben were already in their seats. Richie gave a friendly wave and squelched in next to Ben, who had a cast on his arm. Three signatures.

“We weren’t sure if you’d show,” Ben admitted.

“What, and miss Stan the Man’s Bar Mitzvah? Never! You know, in my universe, I’m the _only_ one who shows. It’s a really bad look for you guys.”

Mike leaned over. “I told him about my multiverse theory.”

Eddie groaned. “Richie, are you trying to guilt us about stuff alternate versions of us did? Because I’m still not convinced you don’t need to have your head examined.”

“ _Eddie_.” Richie clapped a hand to his chest. “I never knew you cared. I’m touched, really.”

“Eddie,” Bev said, “you almost didn’t come in this universe.”

Eddie ignored her. “What are you talking about? We’re _friends_ , asshole.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Will said, holding Richie’s gaze. Will’s form of an apology. “I don’t know if I believe the multiverse thing or, uh… what you said. But I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“After everything we’ve seen this summer…” Bev trailed off. Her face was flushed, now that Richie really looked at her, and her tights had a tear. She followed Richie’s gaze and tucked her leg in.

Ben nodded in agreement. Richie’s eyes fell on his cast.

“What happened?” he asked. “At Neibolt. After I, you know, told you guys you weren’t real and to go fuck yourselves.”

Eddie looked at his loafers. Mike placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We, uh,” Will said. “Mike, Ben, Bev, and I stayed. We got split up pretty quickly, and…”

“I saw It,” Ben finished for him. “There was a balloon floating. It was moving really fast, even though we were inside and there was no wind.” Richie blinked, trying to withhold judgment. He didn’t think he’d be able to tell what a _normal speed_ was for a balloon. “I opened my mouth to call for the others and the floor collapsed. It showed up, after that. Tried to choke me. Bev saved me, though.”

Bev blushed. “It was just a slingshot.”

Richie felt a pang. His Eddie had broken his arm because Eddie had decided to go inside. Ben had broken his arm because Richie had left and Eddie and Stan had decided that seemed like a pretty good idea. “I’m sorry.”

Ben shrugged, easy as anything. His eyes were on the cast. From the right angle, it looked as though it was covered in signatures. “It’s okay. Bev said it makes me look tough, like I was in a fight.”

“Yeah?” Richie grinned. “You should come up with a cool story. Tell people you punched Bowers in the nose.”

“You think people would believe that?”

Rabbi Uris _heh-hemmed_ , Richie thought, _Oh, right_ , and they turned their attention to the bimah.

He didn’t hear much of the ceremony, the prayers a half-familiar blur that he couldn’t have distinguished from what was read at Shabbat or Passover. Stan didn’t make eye contact when he came out, though Ben, bless him, started clapping before Richie grabbed his hand. There were circles around Stan’s eyes and his hands shook on the paper-thin pages.

“Uh, the word ‘l'hitalem’ comes up in this week’s portion. Meaning to be indifferent, or to hide.” Stan swallowed hard, meeting Richie’s eye. Richie wanted to hug him. Richie wanted to apologize and never let him out of his sight again. “It’s one of the… _many_ laws set out in this portion.”

Behind Stan, his father frowned, just slightly. Will glanced at Richie, who shrugged.

“When you’re a kid, there are a lot of laws that you’re taught. Don’t steal, or lie. Be kind to one another. Listen to your tapes once a day.” Richie winced, a couple dads in the audience chuckling. There was no humor in Stan’s voice, his nerves still close to the surface. “You’re taught that as long as you follow these rules, you’ll be okay. Then, one day, something bad happens and you realize that’s not true.”

Richie felt the kids tense beside him. They’re too young for this, Richie thought with violence. Richie was forty and still didn’t know what he was doing. Richie was forty and he’d fucked them over like every other adult in their lives.

“There isn’t any order to the world, or anything you can do to stop bad things from happening. Despite what I just read, we don’t have any proof of why we’re here or _if_ we’re here or if there’s really something watching us. So, why bother, right? Why _not_ be indifferent, and turn a blind eye to everyone’s lives but your own?”

Stan wasn’t tremoring anymore, was energized. Rabbi Uris opened his mouth, and Stan, seeming to anticipate this, grabbed the mic off the podium, stepping down from the bimha. “A lot of adults in Derry think like that.”

Stan looked Richie in the eye again, and he felt uncomfortably _seen_ , a first since he’d been dropped into this thirteen-year-old body. The rest of the adults stirred, Rabbi Uris’ face drawn in concern.

“Today, I’m supposed to become a man,” Stan continued, like it was nothing, “and I guess that’s what becoming a man is, in Derry, is becoming indifferent. And maybe they’re right to. I don’t really know why we should do anything that we do.”

“Thank you, Stanley.” Rabbi Uris was off the bimha now, hand extended for the mic.

Stan dodged him. He switched to a fast-walk with his dad following at his heel, like some kind of Road Runner cartoon. “I just know that, when I see something I know is wrong, like a child going missing—”

“Stanley,” his father warned.

Stan stopped by one of the benches, packed with Derry residents who, Richie felt sure, would talk about this over lunch as if it had happened to some other town. Stan turned to face his father directly. “I’ll feel better about myself if I do something about it, instead of pretending it’s not happening like a piece of shit.”

Stan dropped the mic, the fucking drama queen; the static the only sound in the synagogue.

He headed for the doors, walking at a brisk pace. Richie stood and clapped, as he had before, as he always would for Stan. His mom wasn’t even there to hold him back. The other Losers joined in, the six of them making the chorus that Stan fucking deserved.

They caught up with Stan outside. The rain had only gotten worse, but Stan had an umbrella because of course he did.

“ _Stan the Man_.” Richie gave him a paternal pat on the back. “That was some speech. ‘Course, the original Stanley’s was a little better, but hey, you can’t repaint the Mona Lisa.”

Stan’s mouth quirked. He was holding himself tightly, a little away from Richie. He believed Richie, at least about what he remembered, and Stan being the dad of the group didn’t mean that he trusted an _adult_.

“Thanks, Richie.”

“Ignore him.” Eddie sidled up to them, sprightly without his cast. “That was _amazing_! I can’t believe you stood up to your dad like that.”

Eddie’s eyes were bright, admiring. You did it, too, Richie wanted to say. The other you did, and you will, too. You’re braver than you think. Richie kept a few feet between them.

“You did good.” Bev squeezed Stan’s shoulder, a reassurance.

Will stood to the side, withholding judgment. “Did you mean it?”

Stan was stone-faced. “Yes. Whatever crazy idea you have for us next… I want to help.”

“Me too,” Eddie said quickly.

Eddie and Stan had that light back in their eyes, that bottomless Denbrough loyalty. It looked terrifying, from here.

“I, uh.” Richie scratched his neck. “I’m also down for dying for you, Will. If an adult is allowed in the Losers Club.”

The kids all looked at Will. Waiting for permission, Richie realized.

“You have to come,” Will said, and Richie felt himself exhale. “Wherever your knowledge comes from, we’re gonna need it to defeat Pennywise.”

Bev nodded vehemently. “If we all go up against him together, he won’t be able to hurt us.”

Eddie glanced sidelong at Richie, and Richie knew that he was thinking the same thing: Hadn’t they failed, all seven of them, before?

They hadn’t had this kind of knowledge on their side, though.

Richie also thought: If we need all seven of us, what chance do we have back in 2016?

Richie spun on his heel. Leadership wasn’t a hat that suited him, but he couldn’t leave this up to Will, not anymore. “We’re gonna need some weapons.”

Mike Hanlon, unlike Mike Hanlon, did not have access to his family’s guns.

Richie snorted. “How PG-13 of you.”

Instead, they raided the Denbrough garage, coming up with: a knife, a crowbar, a crossbow, a hockey stick, car flares, a nail gun, and a can of hairspray.

Well. It beat being armed with nothing but an arcade token.

“Will.” Richie was holding the gate open, the hockey stick tucked under his arm. “I have some questions about your dad’s hobbies. You sure you know how to use that thing, Buffy?”

Bev hefted the crossbow to her side, a contrast against her white dress. “What?”

Richie patronized her with a pat on the head. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Great.” Eddie’s arm drooped with the weight of the nail gun. “Now you get to pretend your jokes aren’t funny because you’re from the future.”

“My jokes are _never_ funny to you, Eddie. I have no delusions about that.”

“Richie.” Mike’s voice stopped them at the door. “Is there anything we should know before we go in?”

Richie scratched his head. “I mean, full disclosure, I’ve never actually beat this fucking clown.” The six of them didn’t laugh, were looking at him expectantly. _Fuck_.

If someone was gonna finally expect something from Richie, at least it was these kids, who Richie would never see again, after someone pulled him out of the light.

“I do—I know it’s important to stay together. He’s gonna try to trick you, show you things that you’re afraid of. You can’t trust anything you see in there, just each other.”

Eddie took Richie’s hand and Richie nearly yelped.

“We should stick together, right? Couldn’t It turn into one of us, too?”

Eddie’s eyes were wide and trusting. Thirteen-year-old Richie would have offset this with a gay joke. Forty-year-old Richie held Eddie’s hand loosely, a teacher keeping a student from straying on a class trip, and said, “Yeah, that’s. That’s a good idea, Eddie.”

The rest of the Losers linked hands, forming a chain on the overgrown lawn.

“One more thing—Bowers might try to follow us.”

Eddie looked mournfully at his nail gun. “You couldn’t have mentioned that sooner?”

“Look, do you _get_ how many people try to come after us?” Richie ascended the steps, the third time in his life. “It’s a lot to keep track of.”

The halls of Neibolt were only slightly less decrepit than they had been in 2016, the floors dotted with cobwebs and dust that had Eddie immediately reaching for his EpiPen. Richie shuddered as they passed the fridge.

“Sorry we couldn’t get a nicer venue for your Bar Mitzvah party, Stan.”

Richie heard a scoff somewhere behind him. “I’ll get over it.”

At Richie’s direction, they made their way downstairs. He felt something inside of him clench at the sight of the sewer entrance. Will grabbed the rope first and Richie thought, they’re all too fucking small. They shouldn’t have to be doing this.

“If I’m still here when this is over,” Richie said, following after Will, “I’ll buy you all ice cream, okay?”

Mike’s laugh followed Richie down the well. “You mean, if we’re good?”

“Thanks, Pops,” Bev said.

Eddie slid onto the rope after him, clinging really. “How’s this work? If we’re really good, do we all get toppings?”

Mike hovered over the side, smile glinting in the shadows. “What if I want fudge instead?”

“Fudge sounds good to me, too,” Ben agreed.

He and Stan followed Eddie down, Stan not even sparing Richie a look.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Tough crowd.”

Mike was reaching for the rope when they heard, “There you little shits are.”

They heard a _thwack_ and Mike disappeared from view.

“What’re you kids even doing here, you got some sorta death wish?”

They heard a scuffle, a head hitting gravel. Will began to climb the rope without a word, like some kind of Robin Hood.

“Bet you wish I’d finished you off back at the Barrens, huh? I can— _ow_! _FUCKER_!”

A clatter, and they didn’t hear anything else. Will reached over the edge, his arm disappearing from sight, grabbing Mike’s hand.

The two of them scuttled down the rope, Mike holding a now-bloody crowbar under his arm. They jumped the last few feet and Stan stepped forward to cut the rope.

“Just in case.”

Eddie looked between Mike and Will. “Did you… kill him?”

Mike’s eyes went soft, seeming almost hurt by the idea, and Richie tried not to think about that, too much. “No, he’s just wounded.”

Richie clapped his hands together. “Pip pip and tally ho then, my good fellows! I do believe we have a clown to murder,” he said, and led them into the darkness.

They walked through the tunnels hand in hand, the splash of sewer water echoing against the brick. The kids were quiet, their game faces just barely visible, and Richie fought the urge to crack a joke, to annoy them into forgetting their purpose.

It would be more for his benefit than theirs, here. He held Eddie’s hand and looked forward.

“Is that a… bit of a light?” Ben asked. “Down that tunnel.”

Richie turned around; on the right, a faint glow emanated from one of the side tunnels.

“Is that a good thing?” Eddie said doubtfully. “They could be those Deadlights Richie was talking about.”

“Those are more… orangey,” Richie shrugged. “Trust me, you’ll know those when you see ‘em.”

“Comforting,” Stan said dryly.

They turned into the tunnel, and Richie nearly lost his breath.

A few yards in, the sewer water spilled out into a massive, reflecting pool. At its center was an eye-like opening, smattered with more stars than Richie had seen in a long time, since moving out to Chicago. Connected to the pool were seven waterfalls, the water flowing upward, toward the ceiling. And in the center of the ceiling, enclosed by water, was an ominous-looking crypt. Richie had to crane his neck to look at it.

“Whoa.”

“ _Whoa_?” Eddie whipped his head around. “Haven’t you seen this at least twice before?”

“Nope.” Richie looked down at the oculus and immediately regretted it, the space seeming endless. “I’ve seen floating dead kids, piles of garbage… he really spruced the place up this time around.”

“That’s gotta be It’s lair, right?” Mike nodded at the crypt.

“I mean, unless you want to… float.” Richie shook his head at himself, looking away from the oculus.

“Guess I’m going first again?”

Without waiting for an answer, Bev jumped into the pool and swam for one of the waterfalls.

“ _Bev_!” Will screamed, useless, and jumped in after her. He was followed by Ben, Will, Mike, Stan, and Ri—

Fuck, Eddie wasn’t moving. He shook his head back and forth.

“Nuh uh, nuh uh. Can’t do it.”

“I know, I know, gray water.”

“I have _allergies_ , you imbecile! I’m—I could—”

 _Oh_.

Eddie hadn’t broken his arm, and Eddie hadn’t found out what he would tell the Losers later, about the gazebos.

Fuck, they didn’t have time for this.

“You did it before,” Richie tried. “Multiple times. So many times that your mom called to ask what I was doing to make you smell so much. It was a real rough spot in her and I’s relationship.”

Eddie scoffed. “Shut up.”

“But, I mean, if you’re scared—”

“I’m not _scared_.”

“I can explain it to the others, sure they’ll understand.”

“Fuck you, I said I’m not fucking scared.” Eddie elbowed Richie, then let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Are we gonna do this or not?”

Richie jumped, and watched Eddie follow in his peripheral.

They swam up the waterfall, toward the trap of a crypt. Richie held the hockey stick tightly under his arm and tried to close the distance with the others, desperate not to look down at the glittering stars. A person could get lost in them forever.

Not forever, he thought, because the Losers, _his_ forty-year-old Losers, were going to get him out.

“This is some new kind of headfuckery.” He and Eddie sidled up to Stan, panting. Will, Bev, Ben, and Mike were pacing a few yards ahead.

Richie felt the hockey stick slipping, looked down at the water. He could see himself and Stan and Eddie reflec—

No, not just them. Below the three of them floated hundreds, thousands of bodies. Young faces, dead-eyed from the Deadlights.

Richie shrieked, bumping into Stan’s side.

“Richie, what—”

“Kids!” he gasped. “There are fucking dead, fucking catatonic, Pennywised kids down there!”

“I don’t—”

Richie felt his foot brush against curly hair, an elbow. That was him, was going to be him. “ _Fuck_ , fuck, fuck—”

“ _Richie_.”

A hand wrapped around his ankle, and Richie grabbed Stan’s arm. “Stan, Stan, don’t let them drag me down—”

Stan pried Richie’s hand off his arm and grabbed ahold of his shoulders, shaking him. “Richie, It’s messing with you. I only see the three of us in there.”

“No no no I can _feel_ it, I can feel them pulling me down—”

Richie felt a sharp stab in his arm, a needle.

He turned to see Eddie pulling the EpiPen out of his arm.

“What the fuck?”

“I had to snap you out of it! Richie, there’s no one in the water but us.”

Richie looked down again. Their own thirteen-year-old faces looked back at him.

He scratched his head. “I’ve done this before, I swear. I…”

“Come on,” Stan said, not unkindly. They were used to taking care of adults, Richie supposed.

The floor/ceiling continued to shift on them. The lighting was surprisingly good, with some sort of light that Richie wasn’t going to think about again seeming to emanate from the water.

Up ahead, it looked like it was getting even brighter.

Even brighter, Richie realized, because there was a giant, glowing, one-eyed starfish rising from the water.

“Um… can you guys see _that_ one?”

“What the—” Eddie flailed.

Up ahead, Will, Bev, Ben, and Mike had turned around, trying and failing to swim against the tide.

The starfish was bright orange and nearly their size. Richie was so stuck on the _starfish_ thing that it took him a moment to realize that it was opening its mouth—which was a thing that it had, with teeth and everything.

Richie shoved Stan behind him, whacking at the starfish with his hockey stick. “Get! _Away_!”

The giant, humanlike eye began to turn red around the rim. Eddie swam toward them, hefting the nail gun.

“Eddie, Eddie, _what_ —”

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and drove the nail gun into the starfish’s eye. Its mouth opened all the way in a silent scream, black ink leaking from its iris.

Richie pulled Eddie back and the starfish, ink leaking into its open mouth, sunk into the water. They watched as it dissolved into a cloud of bubbles.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Richie repeated. “Did he just go—you know, turning into people is getting stale, guess I’ll just turn into a fucking _starfish_?”

“Why did you shield me?” Richie swiveled around; Stan was solemn, indifferent to the melting starfish. “Why didn’t you shield Eddie?”

“Hey!”

Stan paused, glanced at Eddie—just briefly, like he was trying to communicate something to Richie. “A knife would’ve been better than a nail gun.”

His tone was flat, like that wasn’t what he had meant at all.

Richie gulped. “Eddie doesn’t fucking listen to me. He would’ve just pushed me out of the way.”

“Probably,” Eddie admitted.

Eddie swam on but Stan hung behind, wading; staring at Richie. Richie thought, _I didn’t want It to eat your face I didn’t want you left alone I thought if you weren’t left alone if nothing tried to eat your face then maybe in twenty-seven years you wouldn’t_ —

Stan shook his head and resumed swimming. Richie followed, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach.

“You guys okay?” Bev asked, once they’d caught up. The boys weren’t looking at her, Richie noticed; her wet dress clung to her body.

Richie opted for his southern Voice. “Just fine, darlin’,” he said, and picked up the pace to get her out of his line of view.

Stan sighed when they reached the crypt.

“Tired of swimming?” Ben asked.

Stan pointed at the ceiling. “The stars are where they belong again.”

Ben looked at him helplessly. Will saved him the burden of responding by pulling himself up onto the island. The rest followed, the seven of them cramming onto the small slice of land in front of the crypt door.

Richie tried, in vain, to squeeze water out of his drycleaned shirt, feeling a little doglike for a Pennywise confrontation.

“Stick close together, right?”

It took Richie entirely too long to realize that Will was talking to him. He straightened his back. “Um, right.”

The door opened onto stone hallways, archways that spanned twice the Losers’ heights. There was no apparent light source, the lingering light from outside just barely illuminating the crypt. Richie pulled out a flashlight and got a look from Will, who was already lighting one of the car flares.

“ _What_? In school, it’s always, ‘Richie, why didn’t you bring your own pencil?’ ‘Richie, why didn’t you do your own homework?’ Well, I brought my own flashlight as a backup and this is the thanks I get.”

Will shook his head. Richie could see half of his face, then nothing, the light flickering between the cobweb-infested floors and the Losers. “Any of this look familiar?”

“Not even a little.” His flashlight shone on a spider, scurrying into the shadows. “Least he’s consistent about his housekeeping.”

“I mean, he’s not gonna make it hard for us to find him, right?” Bev said. “He _wants_ to hurt us.”

“That’s the spirit,” Eddie mumbled.

It felt right, to keep their voices low. They had no illusions about being able to sneak up on Pennywise, but the crypt looked ancient enough that too much noise might send the walls crumbling down.

A scream came from behind Richie. _So, fuck that, I guess_. Richie turned his flashlight on the source.

Ben was retreating from a coffin, out of which a mummy was crawling, growling.

“Ben, it’s not real!” Mike yelled.

“Use your—” Fuck, all Ben had was freaking _hairspray_.

At Richie’s reminder, Ben pulled the can out and sprayed it in the mummy’s face, shielding himself with his arm. The mummy wailed, a noise that made Richie full-body cringe, and fell backward, turning to dust the second its bones hit the coffin.

Ben panted, a faint blush in his cheeks. “Sorry, guys.”

Richie waved him off. “You should’ve heard me in the water. It was _way_ more embarrassing.”

“It was,” Stan said.

Bev glanced between corridors. “Did anyone see where Will went?”

Richie groaned. “Pennywise really has his favorites, huh?”

“ _This_ is why I said we should hold hands.”

Richie’s flashlight was the only thing keeping the group from total darkness now, though up ahead, in a corridor off to the left, Richie could see a hint of light.

“Want me to show you, Will? Want me to show you what I showed Georgie?”

Pennywise had Will cornered, his second set of teeth out and aimed at Will’s neck.

Bev fired the crossbow through the side of Pennywise’s head. He retreated, shaking his head as if to dislodge the arrow.

No—not to dislodge the arrow…

Pennywise shrunk, turned blurry, and in front of Will stood Georgie, shivering in his raincoat.

“Please, Willy… please don’t hurt me…”

Will put a hand between himself and the Losers, holding them back.

“Will, it’s not real!” Richie yelled. “It did this to you before.”

“You’re not Georgie.” Will said it like a question.

“I am,” Georgie sniffled. He wiped his eye with his oversized sleeve. “This is where he takes all of us. I’m so sorry, Willy… I’m so sorry I lost it. It’s all my fault.”

“She,” Will said quietly.

“It’s just trying to get to you, Will,” Mike said. “That thing isn’t Georgie.”

Will put his hand to his forehead. “ _Stop_! I need to think.”

He had taken a step back, though. Was inching toward the Losers.

Georgie sucked his lip in between his baby teeth, looking like the saddest thing you could’ve left in a storm drain. “Please don’t hurt me, Willy… please, I just want to go home.”

Will’s voice was hoarse, the slope of his shoulders tight in his dad-approved suit. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But… you’re not Georgie.”

He threw the lit flare at It, the fire immediately catching on Georgie’s raincoat. It ran in place, boxed in by the Losers; Georgie’s false body turning to ash.

Will wiped his eyes, looking nauseous as Georgie lost shape, his ashes spreading into the cracks in the stone floor.

“Did that… kill It?” Eddie asked.

“We never tried torching it before,” Richie admitted, “but…”

Mike in the clubhouse, looking as though he hadn’t slept in twenty-seven years: “It can only be killed in It’s true form.”

Georgie couldn’t have been It’s true form. But if everything else that Mike had said was bullshit—

The kids were all looking at him, Richie realized.

The kids were thirteen, and It wasn’t dead, and It was _gone_. It wasn’t threatening them anymore. They’d done it, hadn’t they? They’d gotten rid of It, if only for another thirty years. Was there anything more they _could_ do, if he told them?

Richie shouldered his hockey stick. “I don’t know about you kids, but I’m ready to get out of this place.”

In the Barrens, a coke bottle glinted in the sun. Stan met Will’s eye before picking it up.

“Swear it,” Will said, imploring; entirely too convincing. “Swear, if It’s not dead, if It ever returns, we’ll all come back and fight It together.”

Stan cut into his hand without hesitation, and Richie swallowed the lump in his throat.

The bottle was passed to Will, to Richie.

Richie looked at the others, all four feet of each of them. I’d die for them, he thought with force. I’d die for them over and over again. I’d die for them as many times as it took. Wouldn’t I?

“Swear,” he said, and watched the blood pool in his hand.


End file.
